I do realize that a strong percentage of people claim to “love carbs”. Not like I do. There are few people I could imagine are on the same level as me with carb addiction. This elite level of obsession that I have attained is truly something, and it is like a sickness I never want to be cured of. And for people who do not like carbs…I already don’t trust you and am fairly certain we would not get along.
EXHIBITS A & B:
Boston is not exactly a carb wasteland, but it certainly isn’t Paris where the scent of bread permeates every street corner, nor is this Italy where fresh pasta is mandatory in homes and restaurants or I think they kill you. You have to search for it. Work for it. Want it. And I do. I adore carbs in all forms. Loaves, cookies, pasta, breakfast pastries, to name a few of my top carbs. Allow me to add the disclaimer that a love of this intensity does mandate a mild commitment to exercise on my part. Please do not for one second think that I could get away with eating these kinds of things without suffering through a few morning workouts per week. But please also understand that I hate every moment of those pathetic pre dawn endeavors of athleticism.
In an attempt to reconcile my love of bready treats and the need for exercise they create, I have fortunately found the perfect solution. Near where I live is quite possibly the best little bread shop in town, Clear Flour Bakery. It is pretty teeny tiny and lives in a semi residential area on the outskirts of the city, and it is about a mile from where I live. AIRGO. I walk there! And then indulge in whatever treats my little heart desires in that moment because hell, I walked there. And usually it’s a Saturday. And who exercises on Saturday!? Double win. Treats for everyone. (Note that I walk, not run, because I don’t like running, AND it was Saturday).
This place has everything from French loaves to Italian loaves to cookies to cakes to scones and croissants and a million other delicious things I won’t take the time to write. Every time I go I love it more. And before you’re even in the door you know it’s going to be good because that scent of butter and flour and yeast waft out every time the door is opened, that elusive smell that makes you want to live in Paris even though you don’t speak the language and have love handles that would probably offend French people just so you can smell that smell every morning no matter where you are. I should also say I have only been to Paris once and maybe my delusions about the smells there are just how I want to remember it.
Allow me then to just say this. Find yourself a local bakery or treat shop, and en.joy.it. Carbs are not the enemy people, they are dreamy, pillowy, tasty bits of joy, and no one should deprive themselves of joy. Obviously, moderation is to be practiced. But don’t fight it. And if you’re in Boston, get yourself to Clear Flour.